Page 34 of Branded Souls (Ember Hollow Romance #3)

Skye

T he soft amber light of dawn seeped in around the curtains, casting long shadows across the bedroom. I hadn’t slept. Not even a little.

Fox’s breathing was deep and even beside me. His bare chest rose and fell in a rhythm that should’ve been calming. But I couldn’t settle. My thoughts wouldn’t stop racing—spiraling between the past and present, between Fox’s scar and the knot of dread sitting low in my stomach.

I was still staring at the ceiling with dry, aching eyes when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I jolted, barely catching it before it vibrated off the edge. The number flashed on my screen. It was Detective Whize. Slipping off the bed as carefully as I could, I tiptoed into the en suite bathroom. I shut the door softly behind me, heart thudding.

“Hello?” I whispered into the phone.

“It’s Whize.” His voice was rough with sleep, but alert. “I got the all-clear. You can come look through Jane Doe’s belongings. I got us permission to go through the evidence box. ”

Adrenaline hit me like a shot of espresso. “Really?”

“I’ve been trying to push it through for days. But yeah, I’ve worked it all out. I thought maybe this afternoon—”

“I can come now,” I said too quickly, nervously shifting on my feet. “I want to come now.”

There was a beat of silence. “You sure? It’s early.”

“I’m already up,” I said. “I mean, if it’s possible to go now.”

He exhaled, like he understood more than he let on. “Okay. I know the evidence tech. Let me make a call and see if she’s willing to unlock the property room early. Meet me there in twenty?”

“I’ll be there.”

I ended the call. I stood there, the air in the bathroom suddenly too thick. My reflection in the mirror looked pale and tired, hair wild from the night, eyes sharp with urgency.

I needed to move. To do something. All the heaviness pressing down on me—the night with Fox, the conversation, the scar, the storm of feelings I didn’t know how to confront—it all needed somewhere to go.

I needed to go.

I crept back into the bedroom, careful not to make a sound. Fox was still fast asleep, his snore confirming that, one arm stretched across the space I’d vacated. His face looked so calm in sleep, his lashes dark against his cheeks.

I yearned to crawl back into bed. To let him hold me. To feel that comfort.

But I couldn’t.

I got dressed in the quiet, pulling on the first clothes I could find. Tucking my phone into my pocket, I turned back to him one last time.

“I’m sorry.” My whispered apology was barely audible .

Fox stirred slightly, but he didn’t wake.

Then, I slipped out the door and into the morning.

T he cinderblock hallways of the county sheriff’s office were dim and still, the overhead lights flickering to life as we passed beneath them.

My boots clicked on the linoleum, each step echoing around us.

Detective Whize walked beside me, holding a coffee in one hand and his ID badge in the other, which he scanned against the evidence room door.

“You holding up okay?” he asked casually as the lock buzzed and the heavy door clicked open.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He’d kept his tone light, conversational, but the knot in my stomach had gotten tighter since his call.

“I’m fine,” I said out of habit as we stepped inside the evidence storage.

Rows upon rows of metal shelving stretched before us, all labeled with faded stickers and handwritten case numbers. The room smelled like dust and something vaguely metallic.

“We’re still working on figuring out who’s responsible for the cameras.” Whize’s face soured. “I hate that that happened to you.”

He took another sip of his coffee, looking about as tired as I felt.

Purple smudges shadowed his eyes. His usually clean-shaven jaw was peppered with facial hair.

The weight of that stone made of consolidated guilt in my chest got even heavier.

Brandon had been working so hard for me, with me, during this whole process.

I hadn’t even thanked him .

I opened my mouth to rectify that, but a young evidence tech rushed around a corner at that moment. She was probably in her late twenties, with her hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail. Her face lit up when she saw Brandon.

“Detective Whize.” She nodded in greeting.

“Morning, Bridget.” He gave her a warm smile that I swore caused poor Bridget to blush. “Thanks for doing this so early.”

“No problem.” She cleared her throat. “Please, follow me.” She led us confidently down a few rows.

I eyed the boxes of evidence, stunned how much was stored here. The sheer number of cases made my chest ache.

“This is the one.” The tech broke the silence as she reached for a gray box halfway up the shelf. She handled it with care, glancing briefly at me, then Whize, as if silently asking for confirmation.

Whize inspected the case number. “That’s it.”

The tech led us out of the maze of shelves and into a small viewing room off to the side. There were no windows—only a metal table, two chairs, and a single camera tucked in the corner.

Bridget placed the box down gently and turned toward the door. “I’ll make sure to log it.” She pulled a pair of disposable gloves from a wall-mounted dispenser. “One of you will need to wear these if you’re handling anything.”

“I’ve got it,” Whize said before I could even reach for them. He tugged them on with practiced ease. “She’s just here to look.”

Bridget nodded, seeming relieved. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

“Appreciate it.” Whize gave her another wide smile that she bashfully returned .

Then we were alone.

My hands stayed curled tight as Whize carefully slit the evidence tape and lifted the lid. My heart thudded harder with every inch.

“Anything specific you’re hoping to find?” he asked gently, glancing at me.

I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure I could. Instead, I stared down into the cardboard, watching as Whize slowly began to remove the contents one plastic bag at a time.

Whize laid out the items.

First, a small set of keys—rusted and ordinary, held together by a generic metal ring. Then, a pair of faded jeans and a wrinkled blouse, sealed in plastic. A pair of worn-out flats followed, the soles cracked, one heel slightly more worn than the other.

None of it meant anything to me. I recognized nothing.

My pulse pounded in my ears, louder with each item.

I’d braced myself to feel something—to be hit by a familiarity or tugged into some buried memory.

I knew it had been nearly thirty years, but some part of me believed recognition would come like a flash of lightning.

That something in the box would stir the girl I used to be.

It was all…empty.

Then, he reached for the final bag.

Inside was a bracelet. My breath caught as he set it on the table in front of me.

It was the same one from the photo—the one I’d been sure I recognized. My bracelet. The one I made when I was a kid, for a mother I barely remembered.

I leaned forward, stomach pitching.

The instant I saw it up close, I knew .

It wasn’t mine.

The cord wasn’t the right color. In the photo, it had seemed dark enough—stained maybe. In the light, it wasn’t the soft woven thread I’d braided long ago. This was more of a thin, braided leather cord.

The charm wasn’t right either. It wasn’t a sparrow with a bent wing.

It wasn’t even a damn bird.

What I thought had been a wing was a curved piece of silver shaped like a crescent moon. Definitely not the little bird I’d gotten from the prize machine when I was seven.

I stared at it, unable to blink, the weight of disappointment pressing hard on my chest.

No, it wasn’t just disappointment—it was grief for a hope I hadn’t realized I’d been clinging to.

My throat burned. My fingers curled into the table edge.

“It’s not her,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the final word. “It’s not my mom.”